These notes collected from the field in the hours after the Game Six loss of the Pittsburgh Penguins to the Montreal Canadiens, from the subject Maxime Talbot. All original statements have been preserved, be they broken or entirely incomprehensible. We can neither confirm nor deny that these statements are authentic, nor that they even exist. Let your heart decide. Proceed with caution.
HOUR 1
Tried to undress, got lost somewhere between my elbow and shoulder pads. Couldn't find MAF for traditional after-game conference. The Penguin emblem on the floor is staring at me, watching my every move, judging. Have the walls always been this color? I think GoGo is talking at me but all I can hear is the roaring of my soul escaping through every orifice.
Will the sun ever rise again over this great nation?
HOUR 2
Found MAF and Brent lost in the runway trying to conference call John Curry from Lapierre's winning puck. Tried to help them back to the locker room, instead ended up in the parking lot. Had to walk back inside before the screaming became too loud. The female security guard at the door groped me as we walked back inside. I tried to take a look at at her breasts but the sudden smell of breakfast food overwhelmed me into blindness.
She then whispered in my ear;
"It's all in your mind, Max."
I didn't know if she meant the breakfast or the screaming.
HOUR 3
Made it to the bus. I saw TK fogging the window with his breath and drawing something. A pony, no doubt. Its name was EM PLEH, spelled in all caps 'neath its prancing hooves. I wondered if he had an uncle em pleh. I might have, once.
Malks is screaming into a telephone and I can't catch much. I listen for "Красивые туфли, хочешь ебать", one of 7 useful Russian phrases I have learned in my time here.
Apparently, however, no one has nice shoes and no one wants to fuck.
I fear the worst thing has happened. I can't be too sure just now, as I'm not yet sure what that is.
HOUR 4
We have reached the hotel. I found my bags, with some help from Billy G. He seemed incredibly aware of what was happening around us, so I tried to ask him for some instruction. Before I could reach out to grab his shoulder he disappeared through the door in the corner of the room.
I must find him before dawn.
I must find what he knows.
Right after I find the alcohol.
HOUR 5
Fleury is at the minibar, still wearing his mask, telling a transvestite that being the person he wants to be is a beautiful thing. He slams his palms down on the faux mahogany (I've got the real shit on the front of my house) as he repeats the words; bea-utiful thing, bea-utiful thing! There is a man in the corner of this room wearing a porkpie hat and numerous fat rings; he speaks no English or French save to insist that he is my chauffeur, my loyal chauffeur. This rum tastes expensive, at least.
HOUR 6
My chauffeur is smoking a cigar while leaning up against his green '98 Ford Windstar, watching Fleury and I in silence. Marc has still not taken off his goalie mask. We are crying on our knees in the middle of a Taco Time parking lot, clutching one another, brought to the lowest imaginable depths by this day.
Mercedes, the Ibizan stripper we got through Chelios' guy in Montreal, does a line of coke off of the truck and hands the chauffeur a slip of paper, looking somewhat quizzically at the two of us, sobbing in manly solidarity. Through the whiskey haze, a thought comes to me, slowly. "Marc," I whisper, choking back manly tears. MAF looks up at me helplessly, like a puppy that's been hit with too many speeding masses of plastic. "Marc, call Veronique. It's like 4 in the fucking morning, dude." I see that he manages to get back into the lobby and then look at my chauffeur, still propped up against the van. "Take me somewhere where I can still get a drink."
HOUR 7 (Maxed Out)
I had not noticed before, the brass cage in the passenger seat, that it had a small hummingbird who was trying to tell me a Secret all along. I cannot understand this secret; I am not a fucking bird. I once did a girl who had pictures of birds on her bedroom walls, back in my salad days. The fact of the birds changed nothing about my performance, which was stellar. Remember when I scored those two goals, game 7, the Red Wings? (That's what I said while I Superman-ed her in the room with the birds. I have slept with thousands of women, leaving the possibility of billions of women more to sleep with.)
My chauffeur does not respond to requests to know the bird's name, replying instead by motioning to the cooler in the back of the van stocked with an appeasement of white wine and Breakfast Breaks,© which is apparently like Lunchables for children whose mothers don't believe in God.
I feast gratefully all the same, slowly losing consciousness as my chauffeur turns off of the highway. I can hear myself mumbling, "Fuck the Canadiens, man. Just fuck em." My chauffeur makes a noise that I know to be agreement. I am blessed to have such a loyal chauffeur.
We are back at the Holiday Inn. I wonder if I will find Billy G.
HOUR 8
Billy G has found me instead; he was waiting on the purple couch in the lobby. He has cuts on his face and, I can't be sure, but I think he is missing a tooth he wasn't missing four hours ago. I ask what has happened and he tells me to only open my mouth if I have given up all will to live.
I contemplate if feeding the goldfish is worth living for, but he speaks before I come to a conclusion.
"Max. Drink from this."
I take the bottle, not questioning, familiar with its contents. Billy G takes me by the shoulders, and shakes. Everything starts to clear. I wonder where I have been, how long it has been this way, who my chauffeur was and where my wallet has gone.
I imagine the last two would be answered at nearly, if not exactly, the same time.
"It's IN THE AIR, Max. It's your fucking Canadian air. It's turned on us."
I gasp. Suddenly it's unclear again.
"Drink more. It helps. Sid is getting some of the others. It's been difficult. We just have to make it to the morning when we board the plane."
I poke the snake from its previous position blocking the liquor. I drink.
Clarity.
"Follow me."
HOUR 9
We stumble into a room at the back of the hotel, somewhere behind the kitchen. Everyone is there, even Marc. His mask is on the frozen ground next to him, and I realize it is cold. We are in the walk-in freezer.
Gonch is standing next to me, shaking his head, muttering "Goddamn this country" for reasons I can't discern, but won't take offense to just now.
Sid is standing on a stack of boxes, wielding a meat hook, glaring at us.
A hush falls over the room.
"Did you think this would be easy?"
No one dares speak.
"I AM ASKING YOU, DID YOU THINK THIS WOULD BE EASY?"
A cough. A shuffle.
"You. Cookie. Did you think this would be easy?"
Cookie looks at his feet. There is a long silence. Sid glares some more. "I mean...it's the Habs."
Sid nods and turns to me. "Max, you? Did you think it would be easy?"
I squint. I may no longer be under the influence of Canadian air but I still have a base level of confusion to deal with. "Uhh...yeah, it was just the Habs."
"THIS WAS NOT A SERIES AGAINST THE HABS" Sid screams. He steps down to speak at our level. "This was a series towards the Cup. Which, if you've forgotten, we are DEFENDING. Is this the defense you give what you worked your life to earn, boys?"
Everyone stands, stunned.
"No. It isn't." It comes from the back corner of the room. We all turn. Brooks. "We fought to win this motherfucker, and we're fighting to keep it."
Sid nods. "We have one game left. One game to prove it all. This isn't a game agains the Habs, or against Canadian fanboys. This isn't against anyone. We aren't out here fighting because we hate something, we're out here fighting because we love something. This game is for Pittsburgh. For the Stanley Cup. One game, for Curry, for Country, for our fans, for ourselves. For Mellon fucking arena."
The room falls into dead silence.
"For Mellon Arena," Rupp agrees.
"For Mellon Arena," Kunitz.
I get into the spirit. "FOR MELLON FUCKING ARENAAAA!" I expect the others to join in. Instead, there is another hush, this time as the freezer door opens and a suited man walks in.
"For Civic Arena."
Mario smiles, and nods towards Sid.
Sid smiles, nods back, and in unison we all scream; "FOR CIVIC ARENA"
HOUR 20
Back in my own bed. Tremendous hangover. No recollection of returning. MAF is on my sofa. He stumbles over to the refrigerator and finds nothing but some expired gourmet mustard. He vomits on his shoes, in a noncommittal way. I start laughing so hard that fruit punch comes out of my nose. It is Tuesday. It is unlikely that any of my goldfish are still alive.
While many events in the past 20 hours remain unclear, such as the blinding headache, the small number "2" written on my right foot, and the tooth I found in my pocket, I remember the moment in the meat freezer with resounding clarity.
MAF looks over at me as I try to separate marshmallows from cereal.
"For zee Mellon."
I nod, now understanding my duties completely.
"For the Civic."
Tomorrow, we march forward.
It's time we remember what it's like to fight.
Special thanks to Jon (Grower of The Official PH Playoff Beard) for his writing skillz and general contributions, and to TheGoonBlogger fo his wisdom and input.
Go Pens.
HOUR 1
Tried to undress, got lost somewhere between my elbow and shoulder pads. Couldn't find MAF for traditional after-game conference. The Penguin emblem on the floor is staring at me, watching my every move, judging. Have the walls always been this color? I think GoGo is talking at me but all I can hear is the roaring of my soul escaping through every orifice.
Will the sun ever rise again over this great nation?HOUR 2
Found MAF and Brent lost in the runway trying to conference call John Curry from Lapierre's winning puck. Tried to help them back to the locker room, instead ended up in the parking lot. Had to walk back inside before the screaming became too loud. The female security guard at the door groped me as we walked back inside. I tried to take a look at at her breasts but the sudden smell of breakfast food overwhelmed me into blindness.
She then whispered in my ear;
"It's all in your mind, Max."
I didn't know if she meant the breakfast or the screaming.
HOUR 3
Made it to the bus. I saw TK fogging the window with his breath and drawing something. A pony, no doubt. Its name was EM PLEH, spelled in all caps 'neath its prancing hooves. I wondered if he had an uncle em pleh. I might have, once.
Malks is screaming into a telephone and I can't catch much. I listen for "Красивые туфли, хочешь ебать", one of 7 useful Russian phrases I have learned in my time here.
Apparently, however, no one has nice shoes and no one wants to fuck.
I fear the worst thing has happened. I can't be too sure just now, as I'm not yet sure what that is.
HOUR 4
We have reached the hotel. I found my bags, with some help from Billy G. He seemed incredibly aware of what was happening around us, so I tried to ask him for some instruction. Before I could reach out to grab his shoulder he disappeared through the door in the corner of the room.
I must find him before dawn.
I must find what he knows.
Right after I find the alcohol.
HOUR 5
Fleury is at the minibar, still wearing his mask, telling a transvestite that being the person he wants to be is a beautiful thing. He slams his palms down on the faux mahogany (I've got the real shit on the front of my house) as he repeats the words; bea-utiful thing, bea-utiful thing! There is a man in the corner of this room wearing a porkpie hat and numerous fat rings; he speaks no English or French save to insist that he is my chauffeur, my loyal chauffeur. This rum tastes expensive, at least.
HOUR 6
My chauffeur is smoking a cigar while leaning up against his green '98 Ford Windstar, watching Fleury and I in silence. Marc has still not taken off his goalie mask. We are crying on our knees in the middle of a Taco Time parking lot, clutching one another, brought to the lowest imaginable depths by this day.
Mercedes, the Ibizan stripper we got through Chelios' guy in Montreal, does a line of coke off of the truck and hands the chauffeur a slip of paper, looking somewhat quizzically at the two of us, sobbing in manly solidarity. Through the whiskey haze, a thought comes to me, slowly. "Marc," I whisper, choking back manly tears. MAF looks up at me helplessly, like a puppy that's been hit with too many speeding masses of plastic. "Marc, call Veronique. It's like 4 in the fucking morning, dude." I see that he manages to get back into the lobby and then look at my chauffeur, still propped up against the van. "Take me somewhere where I can still get a drink."HOUR 7 (Maxed Out)
I had not noticed before, the brass cage in the passenger seat, that it had a small hummingbird who was trying to tell me a Secret all along. I cannot understand this secret; I am not a fucking bird. I once did a girl who had pictures of birds on her bedroom walls, back in my salad days. The fact of the birds changed nothing about my performance, which was stellar. Remember when I scored those two goals, game 7, the Red Wings? (That's what I said while I Superman-ed her in the room with the birds. I have slept with thousands of women, leaving the possibility of billions of women more to sleep with.)
My chauffeur does not respond to requests to know the bird's name, replying instead by motioning to the cooler in the back of the van stocked with an appeasement of white wine and Breakfast Breaks,© which is apparently like Lunchables for children whose mothers don't believe in God.
I feast gratefully all the same, slowly losing consciousness as my chauffeur turns off of the highway. I can hear myself mumbling, "Fuck the Canadiens, man. Just fuck em." My chauffeur makes a noise that I know to be agreement. I am blessed to have such a loyal chauffeur.We are back at the Holiday Inn. I wonder if I will find Billy G.
HOUR 8
Billy G has found me instead; he was waiting on the purple couch in the lobby. He has cuts on his face and, I can't be sure, but I think he is missing a tooth he wasn't missing four hours ago. I ask what has happened and he tells me to only open my mouth if I have given up all will to live.
I contemplate if feeding the goldfish is worth living for, but he speaks before I come to a conclusion.
"Max. Drink from this."
I take the bottle, not questioning, familiar with its contents. Billy G takes me by the shoulders, and shakes. Everything starts to clear. I wonder where I have been, how long it has been this way, who my chauffeur was and where my wallet has gone.
I imagine the last two would be answered at nearly, if not exactly, the same time.
"It's IN THE AIR, Max. It's your fucking Canadian air. It's turned on us."
I gasp. Suddenly it's unclear again.
"Drink more. It helps. Sid is getting some of the others. It's been difficult. We just have to make it to the morning when we board the plane."
I poke the snake from its previous position blocking the liquor. I drink.
Clarity.
"Follow me."
HOUR 9
We stumble into a room at the back of the hotel, somewhere behind the kitchen. Everyone is there, even Marc. His mask is on the frozen ground next to him, and I realize it is cold. We are in the walk-in freezer.
Gonch is standing next to me, shaking his head, muttering "Goddamn this country" for reasons I can't discern, but won't take offense to just now.Sid is standing on a stack of boxes, wielding a meat hook, glaring at us.
A hush falls over the room.
"Did you think this would be easy?"
No one dares speak.
"I AM ASKING YOU, DID YOU THINK THIS WOULD BE EASY?"
A cough. A shuffle.
"You. Cookie. Did you think this would be easy?"
Cookie looks at his feet. There is a long silence. Sid glares some more. "I mean...it's the Habs."
Sid nods and turns to me. "Max, you? Did you think it would be easy?"
I squint. I may no longer be under the influence of Canadian air but I still have a base level of confusion to deal with. "Uhh...yeah, it was just the Habs."
"THIS WAS NOT A SERIES AGAINST THE HABS" Sid screams. He steps down to speak at our level. "This was a series towards the Cup. Which, if you've forgotten, we are DEFENDING. Is this the defense you give what you worked your life to earn, boys?"
Everyone stands, stunned.
"No. It isn't." It comes from the back corner of the room. We all turn. Brooks. "We fought to win this motherfucker, and we're fighting to keep it."
Sid nods. "We have one game left. One game to prove it all. This isn't a game agains the Habs, or against Canadian fanboys. This isn't against anyone. We aren't out here fighting because we hate something, we're out here fighting because we love something. This game is for Pittsburgh. For the Stanley Cup. One game, for Curry, for Country, for our fans, for ourselves. For Mellon fucking arena."
The room falls into dead silence.
"For Mellon Arena," Rupp agrees.
"For Mellon Arena," Kunitz.
I get into the spirit. "FOR MELLON FUCKING ARENAAAA!" I expect the others to join in. Instead, there is another hush, this time as the freezer door opens and a suited man walks in.
"For Civic Arena."
Mario smiles, and nods towards Sid.
Sid smiles, nods back, and in unison we all scream; "FOR CIVIC ARENA"
HOUR 20
Back in my own bed. Tremendous hangover. No recollection of returning. MAF is on my sofa. He stumbles over to the refrigerator and finds nothing but some expired gourmet mustard. He vomits on his shoes, in a noncommittal way. I start laughing so hard that fruit punch comes out of my nose. It is Tuesday. It is unlikely that any of my goldfish are still alive.
While many events in the past 20 hours remain unclear, such as the blinding headache, the small number "2" written on my right foot, and the tooth I found in my pocket, I remember the moment in the meat freezer with resounding clarity.
MAF looks over at me as I try to separate marshmallows from cereal.
"For zee Mellon."
I nod, now understanding my duties completely.
"For the Civic."
Tomorrow, we march forward.
It's time we remember what it's like to fight.
Special thanks to Jon (Grower of The Official PH Playoff Beard) for his writing skillz and general contributions, and to TheGoonBlogger fo his wisdom and input.
Go Pens.
